The bees make a strange, silent, oozing mass on the tree. They remind Illya of honey, like a great dollop of honey dropped onto the branch and covered in dirt. But there's no honey and no dirt; just bees moving with one mind, with one thought; to stay with their queen.

When Napoleon appears he looks like a spaceman, and Illya laughs. Clad head to ankle in white; white gloves, white trousers tucked into his dark boots, his face obscured by a black veil in a white hat.

'I never would have thought it of you,' he says. 'Napoleon, the beekeeper.'

'You'd better stay back,' Napoleon warns him from behind the veil.

'I've faced worse than bees in my life,' Illya reminds him.

Still, there's something sinister about the sound of the bees. He stays back, watching while Napoleon approaches the swarm. His partner has a skep in one hand and a stick in the other, and he gently scrapes that weird living mass into the woven basket as if it were syrup. The bees are inert and docile, caring about nothing but their own crawling mass of bodies and the queen at its centre.

'What now?' Illya asks.

He feels as though he should know more about this kind of thing than Napoleon. Obscure knowledge is usually his remit. It seems Napoleon is more of a dark horse than he had thought. He never would have guessed that he would be a skilful beekeeper.

'Not exactly a beekeeper,' Napoleon had told him on the drive up. 'It was my grandfather who was the beekeeper.'

'Your grandfather the ambassador?'

'That's the one. After he retired, he bought a little farm upstate. A few horses, some merino sheep. And bees.'

'And when you're not saving the world from Thrush, when you get a call, you become Napoleon Solo, bee wrangler?' Illya had asked ironically.

Napoleon had smiled and said, 'Something like that. Grandmother isn't really up to looking after bees, but nothing we say can persuade her to get rid of them. And I'd hate to see her lose a hive.'

'Well then,' Illya had said. 'We'd better get up there, so you can save the day.'

So they had driven out to the farm, and Napoleon had donned the suit and gathered the equipment. Now Illya watches as he carries the skep across to an empty hive, and lifts off the cover to reveal the super beneath.

'I just need to get them settled in their new hive,' Napoleon says, 'and then I'll be done. If the queen's there, they'll stay there. They'll be happy enough. Maybe next fall they will have made a jar of honey for you. You like honey, don't you?'

Illya does like honey. He likes it very much.

((O))

Afterwards, Napoleon flicks off the stray bees from sleeves and torso, and puts the suit and other equipment back in the shed. Then they wander back to the house, where his aged grandmother kisses him on the cheek and thanks him, then lifts up a wicker basket and chequered blanket, and proffers them to him.

'No, I know you two boys have got better things to do than socialise with an old fossil like me,' she assures him. 'I made you lunch, so take it somewhere shady and eat, then you can be getting back to the city. I need my siesta, so don't worry about saying goodbye. Just leave the hamper in the kitchen when you go.'

They take the hamper and blanket and walk across the grass. Illya looks about at the idyllic surroundings. The garden is vast, the lawn running down to a little river. The bee hives are clustered to one side, near a stand of maple trees, and there are roses everywhere. On the other side of the river the sheep are grazing in a spreading field. The sky is blue and puffed with little clouds. A perfect day.

They settle down by the river, Napoleon unpacks the hamper, and they start to eat.

This is such an antidote to the noisy streets and high buildings of Manhattan. The wind is light and whispering in the trees. The heat is intense. The river is passing slowly, dragging some of the heat with it, bringing in a little cool. That's why they chose this spot to lay down the picnic blanket and set out their food. The shade of the trees, the chance to step down to the water and bathe. It's a world away from the danger of everyday life.

Somewhere, abruptly, there's a buzzing. It's nothing like the soporific sound of that swarm. This is a sound that makes Illya's skin tighten. That furious humming always makes him freeze. It's an instinct. An angry bee. Something that means him harm.

Maybe it caught wind of the honey in some of the sandwiches. Maybe it's just furious at the recent disturbance in its world. He can see it, a little dark blur moving erratically in the air between him and Napoleon.

Then, the sting. A sudden sharpness in his arm. He hisses, looks down. The bee has gone, flown away, dying after its kamikaze dive. The sting is still there.

'You okay?' Napoleon asks.

'Stung,' Illya says. 'Just a bee.'

He still feels like hissing, because it's a burning, acidic pain, but it's only a sting. The sting is still in there, a brown little fleck left behind.

'No, don't pinch it,' Napoleon says quickly. 'Flick it. Pinching it will inject more of the venom.'

Illya flicks it carefully with his nail. The little remnant is gone, and he's just left with the red mark of the sting.

'Ouch,' Napoleon says.

Napoleon is sympathetic but unworried. He picks up his sandwich and takes another bite. Illya has been shot in that arm. He's been shot in a lot of places, hurt in a lot of places. There are few places on his body that don't have some remnant of a fading scar. A bee sting is nothing.

'You okay?' Napoleon asks after a moment, mouth full of sandwich.

'Fine,' Illya says. 'Better off than the bastard that stung me. I thought you said they were docile when they're swarming?'

'They are docile when they're swarming,' Napoleon replies drily, 'but I can't account for their neighbours.'

Illya lifts his own sandwich and bites. His arm stings. He can feel his heart thumping inside, a ridiculous clamour against his ribs, a drumbeat in his ears. An odd feeling, almost as if he were afraid. He chews the bite of sandwich, and swallows, then puts the rest down. The root of his tongue feels thick and tingling. His throat feels strange.

'I feel – weird,' he admits.

His heart keeps drumming in his head. He's dizzy. It's ridiculous. Only a bee sting. But he's dizzy, and suddenly he feels as though lying down would be a very good option.

'Hey, Illya!' Napoleon is saying.

Napoleon's voice is sharp, but far away. Everything feels far away. It is as if he were becoming smaller, smaller, a dwindling shape in a white-out world, sinking out of reach.

'Illya!' Napoleon says, and his voice is sharper still.

'Hospital,' Illya says.

It's the only thing he can think of to say. Everything is so far away. He's aware of the smallness of his own being, of the receding of the world around him. Nothing matters but the little kernel of his life at the centre of this vast emptiness. There's a sense of peace, because the only thing that counts is that small kernel, and everything else is a long way away. Even if that kernel dwindled to nothing, it wouldn't really matter, because there is peace.

'Illya! Come on. Car,' Napoleon tells him.

He doesn't want to move. He's drifting. But Napoleon is making him move, and he becomes aware of his heartbeat again, thudding through him. He's in the car, too upright, his head swimming.

'Seat,' he says. 'Flat.'

He's afraid he's going to be sick.

Perhaps Napoleon is talking. He just knows that the back of the seat is going down, until he's almost lying, his legs bent, feet in the footwell, head lolling over the back of the seat. Everything feels so far away.

Napoleon's voice comes from another place, talking. He holds onto it, like a thread of frayed cotton dangling into the void. He holds onto the voice, holds on, hears it talking.

'I'm all right,' he says, but he feels far away.

'Illya, are you with me?' Napoleon is asking.

The car is moving. He can feel the rumble all through him, the vibration of the wheels on the road, travelling up through his bones.

'I'm with you,' he says.

A hand on his thigh, squeezing.

'Illya?'

Did he reply? He thought he replied.

'I'm with you,' he says again.

They're moving fast. The edges of the whiteness are starting to thin. He can see the car window. Trees above him, their branches whipping past. Napoleon is driving fast.

'Illya, are you breathing okay?'

He breathes in, breathes out. He's breathing okay.

'Illya?' Napoleon says, and he feels the hand on his thigh again. 'Are you breathing okay?'

'Yes,' he says.

His tongue still feels strange in his mouth, a tingling at the root. He concentrates on his tongue, his mouth, his throat. Is he breathing okay? He thinks he is, but his tongue tingles, his lips tingle. He's still floating, far away, holding onto that frayed thread of Napoleon's voice. His eyes are open, but what he can see has nothing to do with that. Sometimes he's close to awareness. Sometimes he's deep, sinking far away in the white-out haze. He sees trees, the light flicker, the sun above. He hears the sound of another vehicle, a truck, perhaps. Their own engine growls as Napoleon presses on the accelerator.

'How far?' he asks.

'About ten minutes at this speed,' Napoleon tells him. 'I'm pushing past the limits. You hanging on in there?'

When he comes closer to the surface he feels as if he's hanging on in there, but when he sinks again he feels out of control. Not scared, exactly, because there's nothing he can do. But out of control. Sinking. Out of reach. The trees above the car, the sound of the engine, the consciousness of Napoleon there; everything fades away. He is just a core, only himself, sinking deep into himself, as if his body were the world and he were falling asleep within it.

'Hey, Illya,' Napoleon says. 'Illya.'

He blinks and the world returns a little. He sees the sky through the car window. There are white clouds against the blue. The roof of the car is a semolina colour above him, featureless like this feeling of slipping away.

'I'm here,' he says. 'I'm hanging on in there. I'm all right.'

'Almost there,' Napoleon says, and Illya feels a dull surprise at how time has passed so quickly and passed so slowly, all at the same time.

'You going to drive to – ' Illya says, but he doesn't quite know what he was going to say.

'I'm going to drive as close as possible. Almost there.'

The car stops. Illya lies there on the reclined seat, his eyes on the roof of the car, on the edge of a building through the window. Napoleon gets out. The car shakes as the door slams, then he comes around and opens the door on Illya's side.

'Hey, Illya, can you walk?' he asks.

He isn't sure. He doesn't feel safe within his own body. He tries to sit up, to swing his legs over the edge of the seat. The soles of his shoes hit the tarmac.

'Come on,' Napoleon says. 'Come on, buddy.'

He tries to stand. He can feel everything going. His ears are whistling. The world is going away.

'I'm going to pass out,' he says.

It feels ridiculous. He's going to faint. Just a sting in the arm, a tiny drop of venom, and he's going to faint. His ears are screaming.

'Just a little way,' Napoleon says in a reassuring tone. 'It's not far.'

'No, Napoleon, I'm – '

He lets himself sprawl, folding himself down onto the ground before he drops. Everything is fading away. All there is is the intense feeling of nausea, the loss of control. He's lying on the ground, trying to bring himself back. After a moment he can feel the sharp prickle of the tarmac under his cheek. His mouth is full of saliva. He is no more than a tiny passenger inside the biological wreck of his body.

'Okay,' Napoleon is saying to him.

Someone else is there. They're hauling him up, getting him into a wheelchair. He sits there, panting, trying to keep himself in the here and now. It's so hard to keep himself in the present, in the reality of the world. The wheelchair trundles over the ground and he feels foolish, helpless, so silly being pushed into the hospital in a chair just because a bee stung his arm.

'You'll be all right now, I. K.,' Napoleon tells him. Then he asks the person pushing the chair, 'Can I come in with him?'

That's a good idea, Illya thinks. He's glad when the man says yes. He's vulnerable. It doesn't matter that this was a day off. They're always vulnerable to Thrush and U.N.C.L.E.'s other enemies. And bees, it seems. A hundred million bees.

It seems to take a long time to get through the preliminaries of admission. He sits in the chair being asked questions. He wants to lie down. He feels the world going again, fading away. He says, 'I need to lie down,' and they say, 'Just a few more questions first.'

But he needs to lie down now. He tries to make for the examination bed, but he can't make it. He finds himself on the floor, vomiting, the taste of acid and the picnic food coming up through his mouth. He is a wreck, out of control.

'I'm sorry,' he murmurs.

He's lying on the cool floor, watching feet around him, looking at the doorpost in front of his face, the pool of sick, and the little specks of colour in the vinyl tiles of the floor. They get him up, get him onto a gurney, and he lies there, taking in breaths. They're putting a tube across his nose, talking about oxygen. The air that comes out smells of ozone. There are lights in the ceiling above him, moving.

The doctor is talking about low blood pressure, and fluids. There's a cannula in the crook of his elbow. He's lying on the gurney with the voices all about him, and when his vision comes back he finds he's in another place, a little alcove. He's being transferred to a big reclining chair, and everything wavers around him.

'You're okay,' Napoleon says. 'Are you okay, Illya?'

'Yeah,' he says. 'Yeah.'

'All right,' he nods. 'I need to go move the car, Illya. Will you be all right?'

'Of course,' he says. 'Of course, I'll be fine.'

So Napoleon walks away, and he watches him go.

It's a weird, weird thing. His arm hardly stings now. There's hardly a bump. But this tiny creature has him completely undone. He rests back in the chair, and he realises he's shaking. His legs are shaking and he can't make them stop. There's a coldness all through his body. Something is being transferred into his vein from a bag high on a stand, and this is ridiculous, because he can't stop his legs shaking, can't stop his teeth trying to chatter.

A nurse brings him a blanket. A nurse brings him a cup of tea, sugar sweet all through. There's a woman opposite him, upright in her chair, and she chatters. He talks back, only half his mind on what she's saying. Something about a stroke or a heart attack. Something about the inattention of the nurses.

He knows he's all right now. He thinks he's all right. He sips at the tea but his hand is shaking. He wills the sugar to go down into his body, to make him strong again. After a little time he's taken through to a bed, and that's when Napoleon comes back, smiling, with worry on his face.

'You all right, partner?' he asks.

'I'm all right,' Illya says.

He feels faint when he tries to sit up. There's still a drip in his arm. Most of all he feels embarrassed. What a fuss for such a tiny thing.

'I was just talking to the doctor outside,' Napoleon says. 'You might be able to go home by the end of the day, but maybe an overnight stay. They'll see how you do.'

At the moment the hospital feels like the best place in the world to be. He has never been fond of hospitals, but his body feels frail and unreliable, and being near to doctors and medicine is exactly where he needs to be.

'I'll stay,' Napoleon assures him, without prompting.

Neither of them have their guns. It wasn't that kind of day. But having Napoleon there is a reassurance. It's a good thing.

Napoleon flops a small booklet down onto his legs, on top of the blanket. Illya only half looks at it, seeing a bright stripe of colour, and a black and white photograph of – He lifts his head a little to see better. It's a picture of a happy child, feeding a dog honey from a spoon.

'Napoleon, what – ' he begins.

'They had a book sale in the entrance,' Napoleon tells him. 'This caught my eye. It's the American Bee Journal. I thought you might like to start your research now. Grandma has about a thousand more at home, if you get the taste for it.'

He can't help but smile. The thought of the thing makes him feel slightly sick, but Napoleon knows him well. Napoleon knows that for the next few months Illya will do all he can to know his enemy, and that will include journals full of facts about bees. This will be a start.

((O))

A year later in Switzerland, when they're in their honey-smeared car and he hears the ominous drone of the bees, he doesn't feel any more afraid than he would normally. He's seen the bodies sprawled in the local headquarters. They can't all have had a deadly allergy to bee stings, so these bees will be no less lethal to Napoleon than they are to him. The important thing is to not get stung. Driving into a lake solves that problem. Even killer bees can't fly under water.

He is grateful, though, for his early exposure to the deadliness of bees. Grateful that Napoleon dropped that slim journal on his knees in the hospital, and that he had read the entire thing before he was allowed home. Grateful that the reading started a hunger in him to know more about these fascinating creatures, so that by the time they are facing bees bred to be lethal to everyone, he is completely versed in their lives and habits. Grateful too that when they're in the briefing in Waverly's office he can reveal he has read the relevant, extremely obscure, journal article by Dr Swan, and be just a little smug.